


There Must Have Been Some Magic

by MayhemHeart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Awkward situations, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Magic, Do You Want to Build a Snowman?, Flirting, M/M, Mycroft is a good uncle, Mycroft's life is not a Charles Dickens Movie, but maybe?, magical being, meet cute?, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28280973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayhemHeart/pseuds/MayhemHeart
Summary: Mycroft isn't lonely. He isn't. He has his family and a few select friends. He doesn't mind sleeping alone in his huge bed and waking up to an empty house. He values his privacy. He's perfectly content with his life ...until the snowman he and Rosie build comes to life Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 114
Collections: 12 Days of Mystrade and Friends, Mystrade Holiday 2020





	There Must Have Been Some Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Early Happy Christmas! I struggled with some parts of this story, but I hope you all enjoy it :)  
> Slightly differently meeting AU? Everyone has the same roles, but Mycroft hasn’t met Greg. Yet.
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

  
Mycroft watches with concealed horror as his Italian-made cashmere scarf drags along the snow-covered ground, the golden fringe finish collecting small bits of ice and dirt. He had tried in vain to redirect the enthusiastic 5-year-old’s ransacking of his wardrobe towards some older (and cheaper) articles of clothing, only to be met with an epic eye roll that envied Sherlock’s. Rosie was not to be deterred,  _ only the best _ , she insisted. After all, they were going to make Uncle Mycroft a husband. Well, snow-husband and he had to  _ look  _ the part. So Mycroft holds back a deep sigh as he watches Rosie walk out of his house with an overflowing bundle of items in her small arms worth a few thousand pounds. 

He supposes he had brought this upon himself when he offered to watch Rosie for the day and help her with building this year’s snowman. Since 221B Baker Street doesn’t have the space for such an activity, Mycroft’s property is forfeit for the occasion each year. He wishes he could say this year’s offer was out of love and affection for his niece (and while he loves her dearly), he wants to avoid the snowman crime scene reenactment from last year. He had come home to a corpse snowman of all things with fake blood and crime scene tape. His elderly neighbors across the street had been scandalized. 

So when John, Sherlock, and Rosie had come over the morning of Christmas Eve, he was determined to at least oversee the snow production to ward off any unsightly creations. Then Sherlock got a call from his contact at the Yard and asked if Mycroft could watch Rosie while he and John went to a real crime scene. 

“Of course, I don’t mind, brother mine,” Mycroft says, and it's true. He remembers being surprised when he realized he enjoyed the company of his niece. Rosie is exceptionally bright, and while John’s DNA runs through her veins, she has picked up many Holmes traits. He will never admit to anyone that his heart melted the day he held her in his arms, and she smiled up at him. 

Once alone, Mycroft turns to face his niece, “What did you have in mind for this year’s snowman, my dear?”

“A husband,” Rosie sniffs decidedly and looks at him, her blonde curls bouncing with the movement. 

“A...husband?” Mycroft stares down at her incredulously. 

“Papa says you are lonely,” Rosie states as if that perfectly explains everything. Her sad blue eyes gaze up at him with concern. 

Mycroft blinks with bafflement, his mind thrown by the accusation. “I can assure you I am not lonely,” he says, feeling a bit defensive. 

“But you live alone!” Rosie cries, “Papa has Daddy. Don’t you want a daddy?”

Mycroft feels his face heat. Good _ Lord _ , “I.. no-- I don’t want a daddy.”

“But you need  _ someone _ . You can’t be alone for Christmas.”

Mycroft’s surprise causes the words to wedge in his throat. Rosie’s bottom lip trembles, and panic starts to creep down his spine. He never does well with tears in general, especially when they are Rosie’s. “I won’t be alone,” he rushes to assure her. “I promise you. I will see you and your Papa and Daddy on Christmas day.”

“But who is going to be with you tonight?” Her voice is soft and wavers slightly. 

Mycroft fidgets uncomfortably, still at a loss. He isn’t sure how to explain to a child the dynamics of his bachelor life. He had accepted long ago that he wasn’t cut out for relationships. Sentiment wasn’t his strong suit; best to stick to his strengths. He curses Sherlock’s big mouth. The brothers were unquestionably going to talk later about this. In the meantime, he figures it will not hurt (much) to indulge his niece; he can suffer the embarrassment to his pride. 

“I guess we better start making my husband?” He offers, trying to redirect her worries. 

Rosie grins, mood shifting, “We will make you the perfect husband!” 

Thus Mycroft finds himself hours later watching Rosie pick out clothing and accessories for his fake husband. They had finally finished the traditional snowman body, and while Mycroft was eager to leave it at that, Rosie was far from done. His grey designer overcoat is wrapped around the snowman, followed by his scarf. While Rosie chooses the standard carrot for the nose and Mycroft’s imported coffee beans for a mouth, she argues that coal will simply not do for the eyes. 

“He needs to have nice eyes, Uncle Mycroft,” she insists as she looks around his kitchen. 

“Papa says Daddy has beautiful blue eyes like mine, but I like brown eyes. There is a boy at school that has nice brown eyes. What color eyes do you like?” 

“Brown,” Mycroft says offhandedly, too busy making a mental note to check into this “boy from school's” background. 

Rosie continues her search, and when her eyes land on the luxury chocolate truffle box, he laments his lack of late-night willpower, where he indulged in a truffle and forgot to put the package back. She scoops out two milk chocolate truffles coated with a dark chocolate drizzle and beams at him. Mycroft can’t help but smile back at her. 

The last item she hijacks for her project is a dark fedora he keeps in his cinema room. He’s never worn it; Sherlock had gotten it as a joke one year, knowing Mycroft’s love of old noir detective films. To his brother’s dismay, Rosie liked watching old detective movies with him, and it was something they did whenever he babysat. 

“Aren’t snowmen supposed to wear a top hat?” Mycroft asks. 

“No, he’s a detective,” her tone offers no room for argument. 

“Why a detective?”

There’s a small sigh as if Rosie can’t believe her Uncle is asking the obvious. Mycroft wonders if this is what others feel like when they are talking to him or Sherlock. “ _ Because _ ,” Rosie stresses, “you are smart, and you need someone smart like you. Detectives are super smart like Papa’s friend.” 

Mycroft huffs out a small laugh and helps Rosie put that fedora on the snowman. “That is very thoughtful of you, thank you.”

They stand back to admire their hard work, and Mycroft has to admit it is a charming sight, even if it pains him to think of the snow wetting the red silk lining of his coat. Of course, his brother has to ruin it all by showing up at that exact moment, cloak billowing dramatically as always. 

“Why have you made a  _ normal _ snowman? What happened to the beekeeper?”

Rosie runs up to Sherlock, and he sweeps her up in his arms without hesitation. “He’s not normal, he’s  _ special _ . He is Uncle Mycroft’s husband!” she exclaims and giggles as Sherlock kisses her cheek. 

John walks around Sherlock to stare at the snowman, “Mycroft’s what?”

Sherlock snorts, “Perfect. A  _ Snow _ man for the Iceman. How fitting.”

“Sherlock!” John admonishes, but Mycroft just rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, it’s all very entertaining. Perhaps if someone didn’t put it into her head that I was  _ lonely, _ we would have made an ice  apiarist. Instead, Rosie felt the need to fix what she saw as an oversight in my life. Which, “ Mycroft nods towards Rosie, “I do appreciate my dear.” 

John smiles at his daughter but raises an eyebrow at his husband while saying, “We might need to discuss appropriate conversations to have with children.” Not for the last time, Mycroft is grateful for John coming into his brother’s life. 

Sherlock scoffs as he puts Rosie down, ignoring John, “There will be a snowstorm tonight, so we are going to head home early. I suspect we will see you tomorrow at Baker Street?” 

Mycroft nods as he bends down to accept a hug and kiss on the cheek from Rosie, “You shall.” 

Mycroft watches the trio leave wistfully. “Well,” he says and turns to look at the snowman, “looks like it's just the two of us tonight.” Chocolate truffle eyes stare silently back at him, and he immediately feels foolish, which is ridiculous. He reaches out to remove the clothing since Rosie is gone, but something about the act almost felt like a betrayal to his niece, and he sighs. 

“You owe me,” he murmurs to the silent man in front of him before retreating into the warm comfort of his house. 

***

Mycroft has just settled down at his desk to get some work done when his internet connection goes out. He grumbles as he sends a text to Anthea, grumbling even more when he is told the issue is widespread and no one will be able to come to his house to fix the problem due to the storm and the holiday. 

**I need to finish those reports. MH**

**They can wait. Try to enjoy the holiday for once. A**

**And what do you suggest I do? MH**

**Read a book. Watch a movie. RELAX. A**

Mycroft rarely finds himself with free time, and he dithers over what he wants to do. Suddenly watching a movie alone seemed pitiable. Not a single book in his library intrigues him. He feels irritable and unhappy with himself, painfully aware of how alone he currently is. Does that bother him? He sits on his sofa with a defeated sigh, Rosie’s despair at his singlehood taking up too much space in his mind. 

The knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts an hour later, and he breathes a sigh of relief.  _ Finally _ , a Christmas miracle, Mycroft thinks. At least with the internet, he can distract himself with work. 

“Thank heavens,” Mycroft says as he opens his door, “I did not think you would be able to make—”

Mycroft stands frozen, staring at the stranger on his doorstep. The ruggedly handsome face staring back is vaguely familiar, with firm and sensual lips curling into a smile. Strong shoulders fill the coat he wears perfectly, and Mycroft swallows hard when the man’s lips part, teeth white against his tan skin. Rich brown eyes twinkle at him, tiny flecks of gold shine in their depths, accentuated by the man’s scarf. 

The man gives a sheepish smirk, “Sorry to bother you, but it seems I’m a little underdressed. Do you mind if I come in to use your phone?” His voice is deliciously throaty. 

It is only then that Mycroft truly takes in the man’s clothing or lack of, bare feet and legs sticking out from under a grey overcoat. Mycroft does a double-take at that familiar overcoat. His golden cashmere scarf is wrapped around the man’s neck, and his fedora covers soft hair that is more silver than salt and pepper.

“Did you  _ steal  _ from my snowman?” Mycroft demands and looks behind the man. 

“Your what?” The man asks in confusion and turns as well. They both look at that snowman-less front yard. Mycroft shakes his head, dumbfounded, at the lack of the snow detective. Not even a pile of snow remains to show the sculpture even existed. So much for his husband, he thinks warily and turns his attention back to the man in front of him. His mind is furiously trying to rationalize what is happening and keeps coming up blank. 

The silver stranger pulls the coat tighter around his body, and Mycroft blanches, ashamed that he’s letting the man stand half-naked out in the cold. 

“Good Lord, come in. You may use my telephone.” 

“Thank you,” the man rasps, stepping inside. He chuckles, looking down, “I’m not sure where the rest of my clothes are. I just woke up and,” he winces in embarrassment and gives a one-shoulder shrug. “Apparently, I drank too much last night, and my friends are playing a joke.”

“A dangerous joke,” Mycroft's admonishes, tone serious. “You could have frozen to death.”

The man shrugs again, nonchalant, “I’m alright with the cold.” 

Mycroft presses his lips together and doesn't comment. The stupidity of people these days. He beckons the man to follow him to the kitchen, and he points out the telephone on the wall. “Call whoever you need to, and I will get you some clothes, Mr...?”

“Oh,” the man flashes a devastating grin and holds out a hand, “my name is Noel.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, shaking the offered hand, and shivers at the touch of the man’s ice-cold palm. “Mycroft.”

Noel’s eyes seem to brighten, laugh lines wrinkling at the corner of his eyes, “I really appreciate this, Mycroft.”

Mycroft has the sudden urge to brush his thumbs across the delicate lines, which is entirely absurd. Instead, Mycroft hums in acknowledgment and hurries to his bedroom to look for something that might be suitable for his guest as he pulls out his mobile. 

**I have just let a half-naked stranger into my home to use my telephone. MH**

**Has Christmas come early then? A**

**I am serious. He just showed up out of nowhere. MH**

**Do I need to alert security? A**

**Not yet. I will keep you updated. MH**

Mycroft finds a pair of navy plaid pajama bottoms that should fit the other man, along with a white vest, thick socks, and one of his extra dressing gowns. After a moment’s hesitation, he changes into a carmine lambswool jumper, the thickness helping to hide the panic button necklace he slips on and hides under the fabric. Besides the odd situation itself, he has no reason to fear the stranger in his house, but Anthea would never forgive him if he were murdered so easily. 

He smooths down his charcoal grey trousers before he goes back downstairs. He walks into the kitchen just in time to catch the tell end of Noel’s phone call. The man sighs dejectedly, “Okay, thanks for trying. I’ll figure something out.” He hangs up the receiver and groans. He has taken off the fedora, and it is sitting on the kitchen counter with the scarf. Mycroft’s eyes run over the back of Noel’s bare calf muscles. 

Mycroft clears his throat, “Bad news?”

Noel looks over at Mycroft, “Yeah, my friend can’t come get me right now, and the cabs aren’t running because of the snow right now.” He offers an apologetic smile as he takes the clothes from Mycroft, “Ta.” 

Mycroft opens his mouth to talk, but Noel is suddenly slipping the coat off his solid shoulders, and air just wheezes harshly out of Mycroft’s lungs instead. Mycroft whirls around at the reveal of powerful biceps, his pulse pounding as he listens to Noel disrobe entirely. The slide of the fabric against bare skin is loud in his ears. “W-What do you plan to do now?” Mycroft asks and berates himself for the way his voice stutters. 

If he thought turning around would save him, he forgets to consider his refrigerator’s reflective surface. While a bit blurred, he can make out the smooth expansiveness of skin as Noel turns his back to Mycroft. His arse is round and firm, and Mycroft clenches his eyes shut as the man bends forward to put on the pajama bottoms. The room rapidly feels too warm and confining. 

“If you don’t mind giving me a pair of  wellies, I can walk. I’ll get them back to you somehow.”

Mycroft shakes his head, “Don’t be absurd. I don’t have trousers that would fit you, and you certainly can not go out in sleep clothes. You can stay in one of my guest rooms tonight, and we will figure out something tomorrow.” 

“That’s very kind of you,” Noel’s voice is grateful, and Mycroft cracks open an eye to see the other’s reflection, tying closed the forest green dressing gown. 

Mycroft turns back around, and Noel smiles at him. His eyes are gentle and contemplative as he takes in Mycroft’s changed appearance, “You look very nice.”

Blood pounds in Mycroft’s temples, and his face grows hot, “Thank you. You look nice as well.”

Noel’s laugh is deep, warm, and rich, “Anything is better than being half-naked, right?”

Before Mycroft can stop them, the words spill out of his mouth, “I wasn’t complaining.”

Mortified, he forces himself to give a small smile while he internally berates himself. What is wrong with you? Do not flirt with the handsome strange man. Be professional. 

Noel’s mouth quirks up at one corner in a charming grin, amusement glittering in his dark eyes. Mycroft hurries past him and starts to fill a kettle with fresh water; he needs a moment to regain his composure. 

“Besides showing up on stranger’s doorsteps, what else do you do, Noel?” Mycroft asks, desperately to move past his awkwardness. 

“I’m a traveling consultant.”

Mycroft puts the kettle on the stovetop and turns around, “A what?”

Noel chuckles, “I guess you can say I give advice to people who need it.”

“So you are a therapist?”

“Something like that. It’s not really therapy. I just help people reach their own conclusions with whatever issues they are having.”

“That’s very vague.”

“What do you do?”

“I occupy a minor position in the British Government.”

“Speaking of vague,” Noel teases only to frown, “wait, what are you doing? Why are you making  _ tea? _ ”

Mycroft looked at the kettle in confusion and then back at Noel, “It’s what one does when in polite company.”

“But it's Christmas Eve!”

Mycroft blinks, “And?”

“You’re supposed to have hot cocoa.”

Mycroft scoffs, “I hate to disappoint you, but I do not have anything to make hot chocolate with.”

It’s Noel’s turn to look confused as he tilts his head and points at the dark chocolate bar on Mycroft’s countertop next to cinnamon and a small bag of marshmallows.

“What in the world?” Mycroft breathes, eyes wide. If he didn't believe he was having a fever dream before, he does now. There is no reason he missed seeing that when he was in the kitchen earlier with Rosie. 

“You don’t know what you have in your own kitchen?” Noel taunts gently as he grabs the chocolate.

“I have an assistant, maybe she bought it, and I just missed it?” Mycroft says aloud, trying to rationalize the situation.

“You must work too hard if you miss something like this sitting on your counter.” Noel hands the chocolate to Mycroft. 

Mycroft looks down at the chocolate in his hand and back up at Noel’s smiling face, “I'm afraid I don’t know how to make it.”

Noel winks, “Then you are lucky I showed up tonight. I happen to make the world's best cocoa.”

Mycroft finds himself finely chopping the chocolate bar while Noel heats milk in a small pot on the stovetop. Mycroft puts the chocolate in a bowl and watches curiously as Noel adds a pinch of sea salt, “Secret ingredient,” the man whispers. He also adds a tiny bit of the boiling water Mycroft made for tea to the chocolate. 

Noel stirs the bowl until the chocolate melts and then hands it to Mycroft, “Now pour this slowly into the milk.”

Mycroft starts to pour the melted chocolate into the pot when he feels warmth against his back as Noel stands behind him, “Make sure you keep stirring,” he says softly and guides Mycroft’s free hand to the wooden spoon in the pot, steering his movements. Mycroft resists the urge to press back into the other man, to feel the muscle under the dressing gown. 

In the end, Mycroft refuses to add any marshmallows to his cocoa but lets Noel sprinkle some of the cinnamon on top while Noel adds an ungodly amount of marshmallows to his drink. 

They move to Mycroft’s sofa, and Mycroft carefully sips at the hot chocolate, relishing the heat seeping into his fingers clasped around the mug. He rarely indulges in something like this. The truffles are a rare occurrence in and of themselves. ‘Tis the season, he muses to himself and takes another sip of the decadent drink. 

“So you live in this big house alone?” Noel asks, looking around the room and frowns pointedly at the unlit fireplace.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you lonely?” Noel asks, and Mycroft fights back his annoyance. 

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Mycroft asks, back stiff and knuckles white where they grip his mug. “I am constantly working with others. I have to travel frequently and deal with people all the time. I am hardly alone. Not to mention, I have family that I occasionally see. Tonight just happens to be the exception that I am by myself.” Mycroft bitterly gulps his drink, the liquid burning his throat on the way down. 

“Yes, but --” Noel huffs out a laugh, a fond smile on his face.

“What?” Mycroft’s voice is defensive and strained. He will not have a stranger in his home come and accuse him of being some … some… Jane Austen spinster. His indignation falters as Noel leans forward, his hand reaching up to use his thumb to wipe away some chocolate on Mycroft’s upper lip. Mycroft forgets to breathe as Noel licks the chocolate off his thumb and gives an innocent grin. 

“If you want to be technical about it,” he continues normally as if he didn't just commit one of the most seductive acts that Mycroft has witnessed in a long time. “Then yes, most people are hardly  _ alone, _ but I meant a lover, partner, spouse?”

Mycroft scoffs and looks down to hide the emotions on his face, “Who would want to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Be in a relationship with  _ me _ ,” Mycroft says. 

“I don’t understand.” 

Mycroft looks up and waves his free hand, cutting off Noel, “I just told you I’m hardly home and that I work every day. I don’t have time for a partner. Who would want to deal with that?”

Noel shrugs, “Well, one would assume you would take some time, even if it were a little. And if the person were right for you, they would understand your schedule.”

Mycroft sighs heavily, a flash of loneliness stabbing painfully at his heart. How many times was he going to be reminded tonight of the harsh reality of his life? As if sensing his anguish, Noel’s cool hand squeezes Mycroft’s knee in comfort. Mycroft can’t help how his muscles twitch at the touch. 

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Noel’s smile fades. “Sometimes I can be a bit pushy. I’m just surprised because you seem like a great guy. Not everyone is kind enough to offer their home to a stranger.” 

_ Fantastic _ , now Mycroft feels guilty for the sad look on Noel’s face. He shakes his head and gives a tentative smile, “Not every stranger is as handsome.”

The blush on Noel’s face is worth the awkwardness Mycroft feels. He hasn’t flirted in a long time. Noel laughs and squeezes his knee once more before withdrawing his hand. 

He puts his mug down on the coffee table in front of them, “Do you mind pointing me towards the loo?”

After Noel leaves, Mycroft quickly pulls out his mobile.

**Did you leave ingredients for hot chocolate at the house? MH**

**Oh good, you are not murdered yet. No, I did not. Do you need me to order some? A**

**No. MH**

**Is everything okay? How is your Christmas stranger? A**

**Strangely yes. Noel is a lovely man. MH**

**Noel??? How fitting. A**

**Quite. MH**

Mycroft puts his phone back in his pocket as Noel walks back into the room holding a box overflowing with … Christmas decorations? 

“Where did you find that?” Mycroft asks and stands, coming over to inspect the box. 

Noel’s grin is wide, “In the hallway. Why didn’t you decorate if you have all this? It’s a shame to keep it in the box.” 

Mycroft runs a frustrated hand through his hair and then huffs as he tries to fix the ruffled curls. “I didn’t even know I had any decorations. This house hasn’t been decorated since my Uncle owned it.”

“Maybe it was his?” Noel questions, and Mycroft just stares helplessly. 

“Well, come on,” Noel walks past him and nudges his hip with Mycroft’s playfully. “We are decorating this room at least.”

“Excuse me?” Mycroft asks. “It will be Christmas tomorrow. Isn’t it too late to decorate?”

Noel is already pulling a faux fir garland from the box as he grins mischievously at Mycroft, “Never.”

Mycroft will probably never figure out where the decorations came from. Even if they belonged to Uncle Rudy, they would have been stored up in the attic, and Noel simply didn’t have the time to collect them from there. True to Noel’s word, they find a few more boxes in the hallway, including an artificial fir Christmas tree. Somewhere between putting up the tree and decorating it with lights, Noel finds a Christmas Rat Pack vinyl in Mycroft’s record collection that he didn't know he had (at this point, Mycroft has given up questioning anything holiday-related) and decides to play it while they continue to decorate. 

The temperature is dropping due to the storm outside, and they light the fire, mutually deciding to keep the decorating confined to the room they are in. There’s no need to decorate the whole house, and this way, they can stay closer to the warmth. Mycroft laughs as Noel grumbles, trying to untangle a string of lights he’s attempting to weave in with the garland on the mantelpiece.

Mycroft leaves as Noel finishes the last of the tree’s decorations to make tea; he cannot drink more chocolate right now. He’s coming back into the room he hears Noel’s suddenly yell, “Don’t move!”

Mycroft freezes and watches Noel stalk towards him with purpose. Mycroft momentarily considers dropping the tea in his hands to activate his panic button, but as Noel gets closer, he can see a playful smirk on his face. Noel’s eyes flick up to look above Mycroft, and Mycroft glances up only to see the mistletoe hanging above him. Before Mycroft can react, soft lips pressed to his cheek so tenderly that his breath catches. Noel takes one of the teas from him and smiles, “Ta.”

Together they sit on the sofa, leaning back and feeling accomplished at the cozy look of the room. Mycroft feels a small tinge of disappointment that the activity is over. He didn’t realize he was actually having fun; it had been so long since he simply enjoyed himself in that way. It’s an awakening experience, and it momentarily leaves him reeling. He forgot what it was like to not constantly worry about holding Britain together and just  _ be. _

It’s close to midnight, and Mycroft watches the fire crackle and dance around to the soothing music floating through the air. Noel is next to him, humming happily along to the tune. He takes in the Christmas tree in the corner with its twinkling lights, the garland around the room. The smell of pine lingers in the air, and Mycroft can still taste a hint of chocolate on his lips. He is suddenly filled with such joy and longing at the same time. 

He’s not sure how one is supposed to feel when they realize they have neglected their own needs for years. Part of him wants to ask Noel to stay with him, but deep down, something tells him that it’s not meant to be. While he would love to explore a relationship with Noel, something is holding him back. Strangely he’s not upset about it even if the man is devastatingly beautiful. He’s just happy that he has someone to spend Christmas Eve with. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says softly.

He’s not sure Noel hears him until there is a murmured, “What for?”

Mycroft turns his head and smiles, “For making me  _ realize this _ . I appreciate my job, but I do use it as a distraction. When my relationships failed in the past, I always blamed the other person or the job itself. After all, I gave them everything... Only I now realize I gave them everything but myself. I simply gave up and stopped trying. I did not want to dwell on the fact that I am alone. I  _ am _ lonely, but I’ve been alone for so long I’m not sure how to change that.”

“Simple,” Noel shrugs, “Just go up to a handsome bloke and say, ‘Hi, my name is Mycroft.’ Anyone worth their salt will be smitten with you.”

Mycroft can’t help the laughter that bubbles up from his chest, “Just like that?” 

“Yes.” 

“It can not be that simple.”

“Why not?” Noel asks and frowns, a slight tilt to his head as if he's trying to figure out how  _ Mycroft’s _ logic is wrong and not his.

“Because life is not a hallmark movie,” Mycroft explains. 

Noel nudges Mycroft’s shoulder with his own, “Says you.”

Mycroft leans his shoulder back into Noel’s, and he yawns as he settles into the drowsy warmth of the sofa. Noel starts to hum again to the music, and he closes his eyes for a moment. His last waking thought before he drifts off to sleep is that it would be nice to have someone next to him every night. 

***

Mycroft wakes up Christmas Day on the sofa. The fire is almost out with a faint ember light from the ashes, and the air is chilly. He lays for a few moments under the warm blanket on top of him and blinks slowly, trying to remember the previous day. When the memories come rushing into his consciousness, he bolts upright and frantically looks around for the other man. 

“Noel?” he calls out, but there is no response. 

Maybe it was a dream? He stands up, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders as he spies their used mugs on the coffee table. He looks around, and the Christmas decorations are still in place. The tree twinkles merrily at him, and Mycroft frowns. He turns and sees the clothing he had given to Noel folded up neatly on the arm of his sofa. Good Lord, he thinks, is the man running naked through London? 

Mycroft checks the rest of his house, and there are still no signs of Noel. Nothing is taken either, so he wasn’t robbed. Did he really have a strange man in his house last night who made him hot cocoa and forced him to enjoy Christmas? His mobile beeps, and he sees there are three missed messages from Anthea.

**I hope you are still not murdered. A**

**If you don’t answer by eight, I’m calling security. A**

**You have 10 minutes left. A**

Mycroft hurriedly types out a reply.

**I have not been murdered. Apparently, my life is a Charles Dickens movie. MH**

**How is your handsome stranger? A**

**Gone. MH**

**Gone? A**

**I woke up, and he wasn’t here. Left the clothes I had given him. There might be a naked man on the loose. MH**

**Happy Christmas, indeed. A**

Mycroft laughs. 

**Happy Christmas. MH**

***

Mycroft is slow to start moving, still in a daze about the previous night. Everything felt so real; it had to be authentic unless his mind decided to stage an elaborate prank on him? Maybe he needed to take time off work. Mycroft showers and dresses, getting ready to head over to Baker Street. He smiles as he picks up the mugs on the table and washes them. If he was going insane, at least his mind was providing lovely imagery to go along with his madness. Maybe it was his mind’s way of telling him that he needed to give up his bachelor lifestyle. Have someone in his life. He has to admit last night with Noel was wholly joyous; the companionship was not something he realized he needed in his life until now. 

Mycroft collects the bag of gifts he had Anthea put together for him the day before in one hand and his brolly in the other. He braces himself before stepping out into the cold crisp air, only to stop short, almost slipping on the thin layer of ice beneath his feet. 

In front of him, precisely as before, is the snowman. Mycroft cautiously walks up to the sculpture, eyes taking in the grey overcoat, golden scarf, and fedora. Some of the coffee beans that formed its mouth had fallen off, leaving a boyish smirk on the snow detective. Mycroft stares in disbelief before a slow smile spreads across his face. This is truly the most ridiculous thing that has ever happened to him. 

Despite feeling foolish, he leans forwards to whisper conspiratorially, “Thank you. Happy Christmas, Noel.” 

Naturally, there’s no response, which Mycroft is thankful for. He might have a heart attack if the snowman actually moved. With a stiff nod, Mycroft turns and takes off towards Baker street. He has a feeling that this Christmas is going to the best Christmas of his life. 

***

Apparently, it is not going to be the best Christmas of his life. 

He is almost to his brother’s when he collides with another man, causing him to drop his bag, presents spilling out onto the icy pavement. The other man stumbles and slips on the ice, falling onto his arse with a loud  _ oof.  _ Embarrassment washes over Mycroft like cold water. He is the one at fault, too lost in his thoughts to notice his surroundings. First, he’s losing his mind, and now he’s knocking over pedestrians, possibly injuring them. 

Mycroft forgets the presents and reaches down to help haul the man back up upon his feet, “Oh dear. I’m  _ terribly _ sorry.”

The other man is looking down as he brushes snow off his trousers, and he chuckles, “No trouble mate, no harm done.” 

His voice is rough and smooth simultaneously, and Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat at the familiar baritone. He stares at the silver-haired man, “N-Noel?”

The man glances up at him, whiskey eyes wide with confusion only to soften as they look at Mycroft, “No, sorry. Name’s Greg. Greg Lestrade.” 

The world seems to stop for a moment. The man is the spitting image of Noel, but there are small differences. For one, there are more brown strands in his ruffled hair than Noel’s, but Mycroft can tell in a few years the silver will eventually take over. Greg’s skin is slightly more tan, but the morning light still glimmers on his handsome face like beams of icy radiance, highlighting a strong, stubbled jawline and sparkling eyes. There are more lines around his mouth and eyes, and they move as the corner of Greg's mouth turns up into a flirtatious smirk. 

Mycroft's heart thumps wildly as he holds out his hand, “Hi, my name is Mycroft.”

(Okay, so maybe it is the best Christmas.)

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr ](https://thesilverapplesofthemoon.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
